The Symphonic Funk of Dean Winchester
by BewareTheBearShark
Summary: While squatting in an isolated dump of a house, Dean draws himself out of his funk in away that Sam was not expecting. Minor language. Angsty. Long one-shot. Blurgh.


**Ok, this is a little bit corny. And angsty. And it has too many periods, but I'm a sucker for that kind of thing so...yeah... ENJOY THE WORD PUKE MY PRECIOUS PORK DUMPLINGS! -Charlie**

The abandoned farmhouse they decided to squat in for the rest of the week was quite the shit-hole. It was run down, run up, and completely wrecked in every way. It sat in all of it's crappy glory on the side of the road in the middle of no where. The outer walls were covered in more bare wood then paint, the shingles that used to be on the roof, lay in a sad heap on the side of the house, the door was hanging by a hinge, and the stairs were gone. Seriously. All that was left of what probably used to be porch was a hole. The kitchen,was a fire pit with a couple of sharpened hot dog sticks leaning against the side. The bathroom was a little grove of trees clumped in the corner of the massive, jungle of a yard.

All in all, it was a dump. But it was peaceful, and green, the birds chirped in the morning, and the air smelled like pine. It was a remote place to regroup after the draining hunt.

They had been tracking a Wendigo pack in Wisconsin. They ended up getting stuck with this girl who had been lost in the woods. She was trailer camping, and she she had lost her way trying to find a proper place to take a shit. She was too curious for her own good, she was cheeky, nosy, she was a horrible whistler and she was doing it constantly, and she was just a general pain in the ass. But, she was also really great to talk to. She tried her best not to get in the way but she didn't get off without a huge gash to the gut. She made it to the car, but she bled out before they could get her to the hospital. Dean was supposed to be watching her back, but he got a bit side tracked when a Wendigo came from above, slammed him in the head, and dragged him up into a tree. Naturally, Dean made the whole thing his fault. Typical martyr. Basically, they needed a place to recover from the head bashing and pretty much the rest of the shit that had happened that month. So they didn't really care that the moldy ceiling was slumping in, or that they slept on camping mats and balled up jackets. All in all, they'd had much worse. The Winchesters had lived on a park bench for a week. This was nothing.

Dean hadn't really talked much the last few days. At all actually. He had grown out his mourning scruff, he hadn't changed clothes for a while, and generally, he looked like shit warmed over. And Sam was past concerned. No. He was _always _concerned for his brother, _constantly._ Because, and not even Dean himself could deny it, Sam's brother was one crazy son of a bitch. His marbles had been scrambled since age four when he lost himself. He lost himself to his family. He put so much effort into holding whatever was left of his ramshackle excuse of a clan together by the rapidly tearing seams, that he forgot to take care of his own shit. And Sam's brother _had a lot of shit to deal with_. And Sam knew it. It took him fifteen snobby, selfish, years for him to figure out that Dean had lost his identity in the destructive, road-tripping storm, that was his family. Yup, hurricane Winchester had sucked up their most important member. And now he was having one of his silent days. Dean Winchester was a bit like a storm himself. A storm that usually ranged from destructively angry, to mute. Rage ridden Dean would destroy every door, mirror, car window, and whiskey glass in sight, desperate to dish out revenge to the invisible, unreachable enemy that took that name of fate. He would break noses and curse at the sky until his face was blue, screams full of rage and regret. It was a bit scary really. Sam had to knock him out once to stop him from destroying all of the shit in the dingy motel they were staying in. It was when he punched a hole in the television that Sam decided it was time for Dean to take a nap.

There was also the blue-jean, motor oil, Zeppelin loving, _I don't give a rat's ass, _brother, with sparks in his eyes, a twang to his _make 'em weak at the knees,_ chocolate voice, and a shit eating grin on his face. That was Sam's favorite brother. He would sing, jump in lakes and flirt with any lucky soul with a swing to their hips. The shadow of the child Dean, who would sneak into zoos and bars with his kid brother in tow. That was the rarest, most charismatic form of Winchester. The one that came out most in the summer. He loved summer.

Silent Dean was the worst. He would grip things until his knuckles turned white and he wouldn't let go. He would forget to eat, he wouldn't sleep, and he wouldn't give anything with a pulse a second glance. Silent Dean faded into angry Dean, which then fell into normal, weight of the world on his shoulders, locked box without a key, suppress the trauma, go through the motions with a bottle of whiskey in one hand and a gun in the other, regular old, now-a-days, cynically snarky, Dean Winchester. Sam thought he knew every little thing about his brother. Every gross habit, every skill, his favorite song, how to deal with him when he had an arrow stuck in his ass cheek, absolutely everything. That is, until he came back from his trip to the gas-mart to hear music from outside the shack' door. Piano music. Haunting, melancholy, up and down, windy, worn leather, Dean Winchester music.

It was like weather. A soft balmy breeze, a few burgers and a twelve pack of beers on a California beach.

A churning, terrible, lightning storm, like a brother in a drunken rage barging into pubs, breaking noses, throwing bar-stools, and crushing glasses beneath numb fingers.

Sam silently crept to the hole in the wall that might have been a window once, and saw Dean. He sat, hunched, on an old milk-crate, playing the piano like it was the end of the world. Which wasn't too far from the truth. His fingers flew across the keys like his life depended on that next note. He played soaring highs, and he depicted the lowest of the lows with that roller-coaster of a composition. Sam could hear Dean's story in that song. He could hear the death, and the rumble of the Impala as they rode along that seemingly endless stripe of pavement. Sam heard the secret trips to the aquarium from when they were kids, where Dean would pick the lock to the back-door, or pay the janitor in odd jobs, to let them sit and stare at the hypnotic schools of fish. He heard the rainy days where they would hole up on the hotel couch with hot-chocolate and their box-set of Clint Eastwood movies.

Sam didn't exactly know why he was surprised that Dean could play the piano. Hell, he took a knitting class without Sam knowing, he probably knew how to do everything.

The warm ,familiar, haunting tune lulled him into a sort of daze, as he watched the back of his flannel wearing brother. For once, he seemed languid. Graceful. Dean seemed loose.

But then, the music came to an abrupt stop. Dean was staring at him through the wall-hole. He didn't look angry, or sad, or upset in any way. No, Dean looked...relaxed..., if a bit embarrassed.

"Keep going." Sam murmured. They were both quiet for a moment. Dean gulped, his eyes shifting side to side.

"uuh..will you toss me a beer?" he requested. Sam obliged, and tossed the drink, and then waved his hand urgently for him to continue. And Dean did. He started to play songs Sam recognized. Then, strangely, Dean began to sing. And he sang well...for once. He crooned Dream a little Dream of Me like he was freaking Ella Fitzgerald. If Ella Fitzgerald was a husky, handy-man, whiskey junkie.

Love ballads bled into ragtime and blues, and Sam was sure he heard Stairway to Heaven somewhere in that long night of Dean tapping away at the keys. At one point Dean insisted Sam join in, and they were both stinking drunk, singing Billie Holiday and AC/DC duets in the same ten minutes. In any other situation, they wouldn't poke the concept of a duet with a ten foot pole. But hey, the world was going to shit, their lives were shit, and what else was there to do besides break out the beer, and sing their hearts out. And yeah, maybe it was a bit cheesy. But the crickets were chirping, the moon was shining, and the booze was cheap. So, as Dean would say, what the hell.

**To cliché? Out of character? Let me know by clicking that magic review button. DO IT! I triple-sister-dog-dare you to click it. I might write a story about the Wendigo hunt...If I feel like it. OR IF ANYONE ASKS ME! *Suggestive eyebrow wiggle***


End file.
